


Here We Stand - One-Shot

by JosefAik



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24125374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JosefAik/pseuds/JosefAik
Summary: Haunted by the ghosts of his past, Ser Jorah Mormont's journey north of the Wall takes him to the site of a personal tragedy, the brutal murder of his father. Here, with the help of a Northern bastard, he must come to terms with his own past and disgraces, and how his father saw him.
Relationships: Jeor Mormont & Jon Snow, Jorah Mormont & Daenerys Targaryen, Jorah Mormont & Jeor Mormont, Jorah Mormont & Jon Snow
Kudos: 9





	Here We Stand - One-Shot

**Author's Note:**

> This was written on a whim, because I love Jeor, and some of my favourite moments in Season 7 are seeing his legacy on the season, such as Sam saving Jorah because of the fact that Jeor saved him, and that conversation between Jorah and Jon about the fate of Longclaw.I wanted to write a quick scene where we saw Jorah coming to terms with his father's fate, as I don't think we really get to explore the inner turmoil of Jorah Mormont all that much, in both the books and the show. I hope you enjoy it!

Snow fell all around them, catching on their furs and in their hair, as the two of them pushed on through the Haunted Forest, trees swaying in the breeze, creaking in tune, as if singing songs of their own. The bear padded his way through the snowdrifts, his fur bristled and his clothes dampened. Aside him walked the maiden fair, a young man with long, flowing, dark hair. Both of them wore their swords at the belt, though where the bear’s sword was simple and unadorned, the boy’s pommel was that of a howling wolf. 

There were no howls here, though, for the Haunted Forest was desolate and silent. Before, it had been home to countless wildling tribes, but now it was abandoned, left only to the trees and the ghosts that still roamed here. Even the wildlife was gone. It was, aside from the swaying trees, almost entirely still. 

The bear felt a certain affinity for this place, even though he had never been here before. It reminded him of home, where all were exposed to the elements, where shelter was near non-existent, although here there wasn’t the all-pervasive sound of wave crashing against rock. This place was not Bear Island, he had to remind himself. The silence here wasn’t because the people slept, it was because they had been massacred, butchered in their beds or upon the battlefield. If the forest had not been haunted before, then it certainly would be now. 

The boy stopped walking, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He bore a fitting name for these surroundings. They called him Snow, the bastard son of Eddard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell. Jorah had history with the boy’s father, for it had been Lord Stark that had driven him from his home, but what did that matter here, in these times, where the dead walked, unstoppable, and bent on their destruction. Now was not the time for petty grudges, he told himself. 

“We are close.” 

The boy’s voice was that of the North, and Jorah was taken aback by how much like his father he sounded. He had heard stories of Lord Stark’s bastard boy, a constant reminder to the honourable wolf of his betrayal and dishonour. That had been before he had been driven away, to survive in lands so different from his home, to lose everything. 

Almost everything, of course. Stark hadn’t stolen him of all of his loved ones. There had been those that he had pushed aside himself, who were now lost to him. 

“It is just up ahead. Do you want-” 

“I can go alone. I can see it alone.” 

The boy nodded his head in silent acknowledgment, and turned his back, to give him the privacy that he desired in this place. He pushed through the tree branches and the snowfall, as if the world itself was trying to stop him from seeing what lay beyond, but it would not be enough, for when a bear roars for his family, who is there that can stop it? 

Eventually, the wave of trees broke upon a clearing, though snow still covered the ground here. At the centre, abandoned and frozen in the elements, rose a hovel, not a castle, not a keep. It was made of wood, crudely assembled, with fortifications that had long gone into disrepair. It was nothing. It was an island of nothingness in a sea of death, yet there had been death here, too. 

He stepped forward, past the first of the barriers, running his long, worn fingers across the top, feeling the cold snow against his hardened skin. His eyes skimmed around, taking in the whole of the place, or what little there was to be taken in, before looking down at his feet, a few hot tears running down his cheeks, reminders of his shame. This place was not worthy of what had happened here, not worthy of the man that it had taken from the world. 

He had never given his father what he wanted. He had never been a son worthy of pride or love, and he had destroyed what little there had been between him. It had not been Lord Stark that had taken his father from him, it had not been the butcher from Gin Alley, it had been he, for what joy could a father take in a son that does naught but destroy? 

“I left you Longclaw, father. I was not worthy of carrying it into battle, I knew that. I was no Mormont, not after that day. I was not worthy of your name, of our family. I am sorry that, of all of us, it is I who have survived.” 

He shouldered the cloak around his shoulders, and pushed open the hovel door. Inside was slightly more protected than outside, but it was still deathly cold. An abandoned firepit lay in the centre of the room, the embers long gone, the soot and ash dispersed by the winds. Here was dry, at least, and safe from the bitter snow. The others would be here soon. He did not have long. 

He could still see the stains that the bloodsplatters had left on the wooden walls, evidence of the horrific crimes that had occurred here. He could almost hear the howls of the betrayers, the wails of the wounded, the choked final words of the dying. His hand moved to his mouth, as muffled sobs racked his body. 

These had been his father’s men, all of them. He had not died protecting the realm from the wildlings, or at the hands of a White Walker, fighting to buy his men time to escape. No, he had been stabbed in the back, butchered by his brother’s in black, killed by the men that had served him, by the men that he himself had served. 

“Our family is a noble one, Jorah. We have always served the realm well, even if men may not speak as such about us. I am doing my duty taking up the black. I am serving the realm as I should, you know that. I served Lord Stark well during his war, and he has given me permission to do this for our name, and for our people. I trust you to hold Bear Island well in my place. You will do our family proud, I know it.” 

The words rang through Jorah’s head even now, after all those years. They had been his father’s last words to him, aside from muffled promises of love and pride before he had boarded his ship, leaving his only son to continue their name, their legacy. 

Why had he trusted him? Why had held faith in him? What had Jorah done to his father but disappoint and betray? He had often wondered how Jeor Mormont would have reacted the day that he had found out about his son’s treachery. Had the bear wept in his chambers? Had he been enraged to the point of destroying his surroundings? The worst thought of all was whether he had expected it. Had those words he had spoken to Jorah been a lie? Had he known all that time? 

“He forgave you. I thought you should know that.” 

Jorah turned then, and found the bastard boy stood in the door, his hand rested on the wall. His face was pale, as if he was ill. Maybe being here had brought back his own ghosts and memories. The boy had been the bear’s steward, after all. That was why he bore Longclaw, the Mormont sword, because he had been the son that Jeor Mormont had never truly had. 

“He confessed it to me one night on our journey. He said that after the war was done he would find you and bring you home, to atone, but forgiven in his own eyes. I only regret I could not protect him to see that happen.” 

Did the bastard know what he was saying? Why did he speak as if he was the one with Jeor Mormont’s blood on his hands? It was Jorah that had broken his father. It was Jorah that had destroyed everything that Jeor had ever held dear the day that he had sold those men into slavery for the love and attention of a fickle woman. 

“Then he was a better man than I thought. When the Imp told me... When he told me of how my father had died, I did not picture this place. It is no worthy monument for such a man.” 

Jon Snow stepped further into the keep, allowing the door to slam shut behind him. The others were coming, that was why Jon had moved. 

“Your father taught me many lessons. One of those was that breaking our honour is not definite. We can make our ammends in this life, always. He was a great man, who served with rapers, and murderers, and he didn’t care, because at the Wall all men are equal, because through service and duty we can all atone for the crimes we have commited.” 

The boy drew the bastard sword that he wore at his belt. A bastard sword for a bastard boy. It was very fitting. The valyrian steel shone in what little light there was in this place, and the eyes of the pommel seemed to stare at him, judging his very being. 

“This sword was yours for a time. That is why I offered it to you. I think your father wanted you to have it back, one day, when you had understood that no crime cannot be redeemed. I heard tales of Jorah the Andal on Dragonstone, of how you served and protected. I avenged your father on this spot. I think he would be proud of the man that you have become, despite the acts that it took to get you here.” 

Jorah bowed his head gain, looking down at the floor, the soil that had absorbed his father’s blood, and the blood of so many brothers in the black that had died here. 

“I can hear him in the way you speak, King in the North. I can hear the impact that he had on you.” 

“And I can see the impact that he had on you, too. The Old Bear was a man who knew how to serve, both his realm and his brothers. That man is in you, Ser Jorah, and I know that Daenerys is safer with you by her side. Our duty is everything. This place... We cannot let it destroy us. We have to take what happened here and learn. It is another lesson from the Old Bear, the final lesson, and one I cannot soon forget.” 

The boy was right. He had not seen it before, because he had been blinded by guilt, but it was true. There was one last lesson that his father had given him, and one that he could learn. He would serve his Queen as loyally as his father had served every man, woman and child in Westeros, for those were the people that Jeor Mormont had given his life for. 

“Here we stand, father and, by the Old Gods, I will make you proud of me, at least once.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually the first of my one-shots that hasn't been a repost from somewhere else. Hopefully i will be getting more original content done soon enough, because what else is there to do when you're at home all day. I hope you all enjoyed it.


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